


The Definition of a Threesome (is You, Me, and Him)

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Multi, Rimming, Sexual Content, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants a threesome. Lestrade knows he should say no. But how can he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Definition of a Threesome (is You, Me, and Him)

**Author's Note:**

> Quite possibly the filthiest thing I have ever written in my life. And the longest piece of smut. It is literally just smut. I started this by spur of the moment in November and finished it the other day.
> 
> Lot's of love to my darling beta- lareginaphantom who is just brilliant in every way.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine.
> 
> Spoliers: Slight reference to Study in Pink
> 
> Warning: Sex. And lots of it. Rimming, blowjobs, fucking. And your imagination.

**The Definition of a Threesome (is You, Me, and Him)**

Lestrade doesn’t know what possesses him to do this, what possesses him to stand and watch as Sherlock Holmes sprawls back onto the bed, a leg cocked up, his arm resting lazily on the hiked knee, and a rather disarming smile spilling out upon his face. Lestrade knows that in all sense, he does not belong here and that he should not be enjoying the sight as much as he does right now.

Because one; Sherlock Holmes is not Lestrade’s to play with, both in platonic and sexual lights.

And two; Sherlock Holmes is a complete and utter bastard who enjoys flaunting what he has because he knows one day, sooner or later, it will drive the poor inspector mad. And it almost does; Lestrade on more than one occasion has sorely felt the need to ask for John’s therapist’s number.

Ah.

And then there’s John.

It should be mildly comforting to know that Sherlock doesn’t belong to John either. As far as he knows, Sherlock has been adamant with his need and want for _un-attachment_ , despite the ever persistent and not so subtle, although thoroughly pitying, pining from both John and himself.

It’s nice to know the two men have found some sort of common ground and Lestrade finds himself more at ease with John knowing the fact that they could both possibly share predicaments. They’re both in love with the same prick. And at this moment, Lestrade can only be glad to find an ally he can rely on.

John Watson is also beside Lestrade, both literally and mentally, staring down at the lanky form of Sherlock Holmes sprawled upon the bed like a Persian cat, feeling both uncomfortable and slightly aroused. And how does Lestrade know?

Like himself, John is also sporting a rather impressive erection.

Lestrade isn’t sure whether the sight is comforting, compelling or merely confusing. He doesn’t know what to make of it, which isn’t surprising, he thinks sullenly. _You never really got John Watson. Sherlock yeah, he’s just a git. John, no._

Sherlock laughs lazily and the noise reverberates through the room, a cold echo, a warm huff and Lestrade finally confirms the fact that he is confused. Sherlock rolls his head, his long neck stretching, tendons pulling taunt under the paper thin skin, pale as nothing Lestrade has ever seen before. He wants to lick it, to press his mouth along it, to suck at his pulse point to see, to prove to himself and others that Sherlock Holmes is indeed a human being, despite the evidence.

And his mouth is suddenly dry.

Thankfully, John takes it upon himself to do the talking for the both of them, seemingly unaffected by Sherlock’s performance. He stands straight, head up, eyes cool and hands held behind his back as he practises a look of pure nonchalance that has Lestrade bubbling with jealously at his calm approach toward the situation.

“What are you doing?”

It’s so simple it’s brilliant.

Sherlock shrugs and rolls onto his stomach, his plum coloured shirt pulling nicely over the curve of his lower back. Lestrade briefly thinks what licking there would taste like when Sherlock’s naked, sweaty and begging to come.

Nice probably.

“You know what I’m doing. I’ve made my intentions perfectly clear,” Sherlock replies, tossing the comment over his shoulder, peeking back to smirk menacingly at both John and Lestrade. John bristles and exchanges glances with the DI and Lestrade cannot help but feel a sweat break out onto his skin.

Lestrade nods and crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “Yes, but you’ve got to be joking. You’re not serious, Sherlock, come on!”

Sherlock just smirks.

Well . . .

Apparently he is serious.

“Why?!” John splutters in astonishment as Sherlock spins onto his back, trailing his fingers down, drifting delicately over the buttons of his shirt, just touching them. He rolls his eyes and arches his back just so, his shirt riding up ever so slightly and Lestrade’s cock twitches in excitement.

“I’ve already explained it. But you’re going to make me repeat myself, aren’t you?”

John purses his lips and nods in feigned reluctance and Lestrade fights the grin threatening to bloom across his face.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs and sits up, his beanstalk legs folding over themselves and his arms crossing over his willowy chest, doing a delectable impression of a petulant child. But his eyes are glittering with mischief and he opens his mouth, repeating the one word Lestrade is anticipating yet dreading at the same time. A part of him does not want Sherlock to say it because he knows that when it all boils down, he will never be able to refuse Sherlock. He hasn’t before, and Lestrade doesn’t see himself starting now. It’s pathetic really and he wants to kick himself despite the fact that it won’t do any good.

He can tell, just by looking at him, that John is tethering on the edge as well. It’s been too long since either of them had seen an escape route from this hold Sherlock held over them and they’re both close to breaking point.

But this-

This was just _bollocks._

A threesome? What on earth is that supposed to mean? That Sherlock desired both of them? That he, in actual fact, wanted neither and just the sex. And since when did Sherlock want sex? Which also begged the question; did Sherlock know about Lestrade’s own adhesion towards himself? He must have caught onto his feelings- there was no way-

“You, Lestrade, and I should engage in a threesome.”

Sherlock looks pointedly at the both of them, the panic finally welling up within Lestrade and he has to close his eyes and turn away before he fears he’ll say something he will regret. There isn’t a sound in the room, not a single word but Lestrade can still hear Sherlock’s words, can still hear the smugness in them, the arrogance.

John is a little more controlled than himself and it’s refreshing to see someone else take charge for a change.

He licks his lips. “Why do you want a...a threesome? It’s a bit far-fetched isn’t it?”

Lestrade can feel Sherlock’s smirk bore into the back of his head.

“I hate having to explain myself. What does it matter anyway?” Sherlock demands. “You both want it, don’t you? I am merely providing a means in which to satisfy all of us as to stop the ridiculous pining.” He focuses on his fingers for a moment. “Besides I’m sure it’ll provide sufficient enough for my research.”

“Research?!” The anger in John’s voice is nerve wracking and sends a delightful shiver down Lestrade’s spine. The moment is almost too good to miss and Lestrade has to crack an eye open and watch. “What research?”

“A case,” Sherlock replies.

“What case?”

“The case.”

Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “ _What_ case?”

Sherlock huffs slightly and replies, “The case, Lestrade! _The_ case!” He waves a hand in irritation, glaring at them both. “Look, does it really matter? You’re missing the bigger picture, as usual.”

“You haven’t even given us a bloody reason, Sherlock!” John snaps. “You can’t just throw a tantrum and we’ll immediately get our kit off for you!”

Sherlock frowns. “I gave you a reason!”

“And what was that?” Lestrade dreads to ask.

“It’s for the case!”

And again with the case. Lestrade doesn’t even think there is a case.

“Yes, but- Sherlock,” Lestrade cuts in, rubbing his eyes wearily. “You can’t just go around demanding threesomes!”

“Well, why not?” He looks confused which is most certainly a sight. “It’s something neither of us has done. There’s nothing else to do. And both of you are being ridiculous as I’m aware you want it.”

Lestrade falters for a moment, scanning his brains for the right words, for anything but falls short and simply says, “Because . . . it’s not . . . what people do.”

Sherlock looks unimpressed and if Lestrade is completely honest with himself, he’d be unimpressed with the answer as well.

“Also,” John cuts in lightly, his eyes studying the back of his hand with feigned interest. “It’s not very polite . . . you know, demanding . . . stuff like this.”

If there was ever a moment Lestrade felt it was inappropriate to laugh, it was probably then. He didn’t laugh, thankfully, but hid his grin behind his hand nonetheless. Sherlock merely pouts and throws himself back onto the bed, eagle spread; gangly limbs sprawled in an array of long things and sharp angles.

“You want it,” Sherlock continues with a deep rumble that vibrates through his chest and goes straight through both Lestrade and John. “Me.”

The culprits freeze and Sherlock looks as if he’s won the lottery. Slowly he begins to unbutton his shirt, splaying it open across his sinewy chest, tracing soft patterns upon it with the pad of his finger.

“You talk too much,” Lestrade shoots back weakly, engrossed with the path the finger is tracing, drifting over a pink nipple, a hitching gasp drawn from Sherlock’s lips.

“Do I now?” The murmur twitches and breaks somewhere in the middle as deft fingers drift firmly over a nipple again and it’s almost surreal, watching Sherlock like this. Perhaps Lestrade is in a dream, one of those realistic ones which he can’t seem to shake. But the last one he had, things seemed to have gone well until the woman who was blowing him ( _I thought you were in love with Sherlock Holmes?_ ) bit his dick off. That . . . wasn’t a very nice dream and Lestrade dreads to think of a similar scenario happening here-

But he distantly thinks how easy it would be for Sherlock to snap his neck with those lithe legs of his.

Ah, the ever elusive art of cock-blocking-

-does not seem to work in the slightest as Lestrade feels his erection throb for attention at the sight of Sherlock writhing on the bed.

How he managed to get himself into this, he does not know.

John is staring at Sherlock, almost enthralled, perhaps bordering on senseless irritation as his brow furrows and the lines crease and deepen. He sighs and rubs his face wearily. “Are you serious, Sherlock? This is insane!”

“No it’s not,” Sherlock replies nonchalantly. “And we would have been done by now if you two stopped talking for once and actually did something.”

 _I will not hit Sherlock Holmes, I will not hit Sherlock Holmes, I will not hit Sherlock Holmes._

 _It’s unfair and he’s just a child._

 _No, he’s not._

 _Oh. Well go ahead-_

 _I will not hit Sherlock Holmes-_

Lestrade clenches his fists and chants the last line in his head a dozen times, counting in French, in every possible language he could know, which consists of English, a little bit of French from his school days, and a language he and his siblings made up when they were small. Alas, only Sherlock could make him count out his frustrations in fictional lingo.

He can’t seem to catch his bearings, watching Sherlock lounge across the bed like some sort of content feline, legs cocked, shirt undone, determined to make a show of things and although Lestrade would have certainly enjoyed it if it were any other situation or if Sherlock actually had a heart, he cannot see anything worth looking forward to at the moment. Nothing, save a black sense of dread, or resignation or even jealousy springing up within him and festering into something ugly. He needs out. He needs some space.

“If you’re serious about this,” Lestrade starts angrily, sighing in irritation and throwing his hands in the air in mock defeat. “Then I’m going to need a cigarette.”

And he storms off without another word.

****  
It’s quiet, which is nice and Lestrade is almost grateful for the peace. However said emotion is currently stamped down by the overwhelming pleasure he feels at having a cigarette between his lips after so long. The cigarette glows briefly on the end before he blows out a puff of smoke, watching as it drifts and dies away into the night.

Damn Sherlock and his unreasonable reasoning. If that makes sense. But Lestrade wants to brood and by now, he thinks he’s been awarded the right to. He can’t just demand things like this- it’s not . . . ethical?

But that doesn’t matter; Lestrade doesn’t really care about such things. He’s just pissed off. Why? Anger? Bitterness? Jealousy perhaps?

He cannot see a way in which to proceed with Sherlock’s request and come out the other side completely unscathed, his heart whole and his mind intact. It’s impossible, completely and undoubtedly impossible.

And yes, Lestrade is aware he’s playing on a hyperbole but once again, he doesn’t care. He wants to brood.

“Brooding, are we?”

Lestrade’s fingers twitch ever so slightly against his cigarette and he wants to scream, wants to shout that no, he is not brooding, and no, he is not jealous of John Watson, and no, he does not want to fuck Sherlock Holmes.

But he holds his tongue and greets John with a tight smile, allowing the man to sit beside him on the stairs just outside the flat.

“I don’t brood,” he replies shortly, dragging on his cigarette and stamping it roughly with his shoe, kicking it aside. John smiles softly and looks ahead and the two are left watching the traffic pass together.

“I thought you quit smoking,” John says after a moment, both men cocking their head at the sight of a young woman kicking her boyfriend out of a car, flinging a flimsy piece of underwear at him and screaming obscenities before speeding off in her Mercedes. Lestrade’s lips quirk up but it’s not quite a smile.

“I have.” And he says no more on the matter.

They need to address the issue, both men know it, can feel it hanging in the air between them, sparking slightly and it’s only a matter of who will grasp it first.

John always did have more courage than Lestrade.

“About . . .” The doctor starts, a pink tongue darting out to wet dry lips quickly. “About Sherlock. What he said. We’re not going to, I mean- He’s not being serious-”

“Yes, he is,” Lestrade interrupts wearily. John looks at him, his eyes burning into Lestrade’s brown ones as if studying the man, reading his mind and he sighs in resignation and nods his head, turning away.

“Yeah . . .”

“Are we going to . . .” Lestrade starts nervously. “What he said, about us, you know it’s true.” He swallows hard, his stomach flipping in a mixture of trepidation and embarrassment. John once again, nods solemnly, now staring ahead blackly, as if lost in thought.

Lestrade continues. “But this is ridiculous! This . . . I mean, he can’t be serious! He can’t be bloody serious . . . it’s just . . .” He trails off rather uselessly, floundering for words that would not come, unable to speak his mind. In all honesty, it isn’t Sherlock’s request that causes Lestrade’s distress. It’s the prospect of having sex with John.

John.

John Watson.

John bloody Watson.

He hasn’t known the man long; he likes to think they’re a little more than just acquaintances, though. After all, John’s a decent man, hard working, strong, brave even, and Lestrade cannot help but admire him for it. He respects John.

But that doesn’t stop the fact that both will go to war, if needed, for a rare moment of Sherlock’s attention. Which also begs the question, is Lestrade jealous of John Watson?

He asks himself this, but cannot seem to find an answer. Which most likely means no, he’s not jealous of the man. Which is good, but does not stop the fact that he is feeling decisively uncomfortable with the idea of sex with Sherlock and John.

Maybe Lestrade just doesn’t want to share. After all, there’s nothing wrong with John and Lestrade assumes the man knows his way around the bed. So what’s the problem?

“It’s . . . weird,” comes the raspy chuckle that escapes John’s lips. He’s smiling, an odd little quirk of the lips and Lestrade doesn’t understand why he’s staring at them all of a sudden. _This is all Sherlock’s fault._

“What is?”

John smiles and gestures a hand between the both of them. “Us, doing it. It’d be weird, wouldn’t it?”

Lestrade blushes and makes no attempt to hide it, sighing in frustration and scrubbing a rough hand over his face. Weird is an understatement but Lestrade doesn’t even want to dwell too much into that.

“Yeah, just a bit.”

John nods and smiles sympathetically. “It’s a no, then.”

“What, the . . .” Lestrade trails off, looking around briefly in case someone or something was listing. Although he isn’t quite sure how _something_ could be listening but he doesn’t want to take the chances. The last thing he needs is some pervy . . . fox or something listening in on his delicate conversation with John and wanking off with his fellow animal friends.

And yes, Lestrade does realise how implausible and completely and utterly fucked that sounds but he has an excuse-

He’s panicking.

Lestrade leans closer and mutters slightly. “You mean the sex?”

John nods, grinning both sheepishly and knowingly and Lestrade is almost tempted to ask whether the man is also afraid foxes are listening. But he doesn’t because he’s not crazy enough to. And besides, the idea is completely impossible. Foxes don’t masturbate.

“Like you said, it’d be weird,” John explains, watching the cars drive past. Lestrade backs off slightly, almost but not quite affronted.

“I never said that. You said that and I just agreed.”

John raises an eyebrow. “So you do want the sex?”

“No!” Lestrade protests a tad too quickly and defensively. “Why . . . do you?”

And then John does something Lestrade never would have thought a sober and seemingly straight man could do. He shrugged.

And it’s at that sudden and slightly surreal point in which it all hits Lestrade with a force strong enough to be deemed as mental whiplash. Both John and Lestrade are fine with the prospect of sex with another man, sex with Sherlock to be precise. The problem is with each other.

Lestrade looks at John warily, his cheeks staining pink. John is awkwardly tapping his fingers against the knee, and the silence is overpowering.

One of them should break it.

And Lestrade decides that since John did it the last time, it’s only fair for him to break it again. Which isn’t actually fair at all.

“Yes,” John murmurs slightly, his gaze anywhere but on Lestrade. “It’s weird but . . . it’s Sherlock. Sherlock’s a force in itself, isn’t he?”

Lestrade snorts at this. “You can say that again.”

There is another moment of silence between the two, but this time it’s decidedly more comfortable. Both men have silly smiles upon their faces, both simultaneously reminiscing on a memorable time with Sherlock. However it is short lived as John rises to his feet, brushing down his trousers and holding out a hand to Lestrade, gesturing.

“Come on, let’s go in.”

And even though Lestrade has no idea what would happen if he took John’s hand, he suddenly can’t bring himself to care, feeling as if he’s swimming against a force determined for his destruction. John is offering a life boat and Lestrade sees no other option but to accept it. He takes the man’s hand and the two walk back into the flat, Lestrade turning to close and lock the front door. The lights are off and there is little to almost no sound. But it’s not frightening- disconcerting, rather.

With the door closed, Lestrade turns around, grinning sheepishly as he attempts to lift the mood. However, he does not expect to see John Watson eye to eye with him, a few (or a mere two/ three) inches between the two. He can almost feel John’s breath on his lips. Almost.

“John, what are you-” But the sentence is never meant to be finished. Its pathetic one second existence ends abruptly with little remorse by the sudden weight of another man’s lips upon his own. The rest of the words do not even bother to put up a fight, resigning to their fate and inevitable death.

John’s lips are soft, which is surprisingly pleasant. They’re not chapped, or dry, or as sweet as petals. They’re just lips, although very nice lips as they work wonders at opening Lestrade’s mouth. John’s tongue is warm and wet and also very nice as it snakes and touches Lestrade’s own. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, a cross between a moan and a protest, a plea for more and a huff of indignation. Why the hell is he letting John kiss him and- oh god, please don’t stop.

And John doesn’t. Not until his hips stutter in a slow grind against Lestrade’s, pressing hard and long before pulling away completely.

John retreats and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, slightly breathless and flushed. Lestrade stares at him, mouth agape, unable to comprehend what just happened. He’ll try anyway though-

“What the hell was that?!” he exclaims in a low whisper, glaring at John in confusion. He can still feel the pressure of John’s lips against his, the tingling sensation not wholly unpleasant.

John shrugs. “A kiss.”

“I bloody well know it was a kiss!” Lestrade furiously replies. “But why?!”

There’s a moment, just a brief stint in time in which everything slows down momentarily just for the benefit of Lestrade’s befuddled mind. Moments like these do not come often too many. And this is because they are, in fact, epiphanies.

Such a moment leaves Lestrade reeling. His eyes widen, shooting up to the ceiling and then back to John, floundering for wounds like a beached whale.

“You-” he starts, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You actually want this threesome?”

John blinks a few times and diverts his gaze to the wall, his lips pressing together as he contemplates this thought. He doesn’t take long however. He doesn’t need to.

“Do you?”

Lestrade isn’t sure if it’s an answer or a question. It’s most certainly one of them- perhaps even both. It isn't a no and it isn't a yes. Why? Pride perhaps?

Or was this another one of John’s attempt at dry humour?

In any case, it doesn’t matter.

They are both flushed, burning bright with heat and arousal from the mere thought that Sherlock Holmes is directly above them on the bed, waiting for them. Why they are standing around here instead of fucking the man into the mattress, Lestrade doesn’t know. Maybe it’s because of him.

John’s already given him his answer.

Lestrade bites his lip and closes his eyes, nodding slowly. Yes, he does want this. Badly.

Is it a good idea though?

Probably not.

His eyes open when he feels John step closer. The man scrutinises him for a moment and Lestrade ponders whether Sherlock has had some sort of influence over the man. But the thought is short lived when the other smiles softly, amusement glinting in his large eyes. He brings a thumb to Lestrade’s cheek, attempting to thumb away the blush and Lestrade laughs slightly, poking John in the stomach. For two men fighting over the same man, things seem rather pleasant between them.

“You alright?” John murmurs softly, stepping back ever so slightly to establish some sort of space. Although the idea is borderline absurd- Lestrade, if he agrees, will most likely see John naked.

Very naked. And sweating. He’d probably kiss him again and lick his skin- that spot right between his neck and collarbone.

Lestrade blinks, finding himself entrapped by the sight of said collarbone peeking out from beneath John’s jumper. He raises his eyes to meet John's and smiles sheepishly.

Is he alright? There really isn’t an answer to that question at the moment.

So he lies.

“Peachy.”

John smiles, a tight lipped beam that unnerves Lestrade slightly. It’s completely different to Sherlock’s cat like grin, his cupid bow lips bowing softly into a smile. John’s smile is controlled, the perfect temperament, the perfect muscle movement, the perfect emotion- everything about it is set to show something. What though, no one really knows, let alone Lestrade. It’s probably just a smile, one thrown out there just for politeness.

Lestrade doesn’t really know.

John turns slightly, his eyes twinkling impishly at the other. “Shall we?”

 _Don’t do it!_

 _Fuck off. Get up those stairs right now and go have sex!_

Lestrade smiles. “Ok.”

 

****  
Thus once again, Lestrade finds himself watching as Sherlock Holmes sprawls back against the bed, resting on his elbow as he shoots both Lestrade and John a rather disarming smile. And, despite knowing why he is there and how exactly this is going to happen (although even then, he isn’t sure he fully knows), Lestrade still can’t help but feel a slight flutter in his stomach.

 _This is crazy. I can’t believe I’m doing this!_

 _Yes, you can._

 _If I leave now, just leave- I’m sure it’ll all blow over soon enough. It’ll all be fine and everything can go back to normal, normal cases, normal murders, normal Sherlock, perfectly normal._

Although Lestrade isn’t sure what’s normal anymore. Sherlock definitely isn’t normal. If the man was anything close to normal, Lestrade wouldn’t be in this position; he would be at home, in his dingy flat feeling sorry for himself for fucking all his relationships up and, no doubt, reacquainting himself with his right hand.

Lestrade frowns at this thought.

Maybe it’s better Sherlock isn’t normal after all.

Or is he normal? Is Lestrade the loony one? He must be to agree to this. A threesome with Sherlock and John.

Sherlock fucking Holmes and John bloody Watson.

Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

 _A threesome- Sexual acts and/or relations between three people._

Lestrade can’t understand why he’s finding it so hard to comprehend that he could be this lucky.

And he uses the word lucky loosely. He’s loony and lucky. And the alliteration doesn’t go unmissed by him.

“So,” Sherlock murmurs, the noise low and guttural, enough to make Lestrade’s cock stand for attention. “I see you both have . . . worked things out?”

He smirks to himself, lounging backwards, and Lestrade wants to flip Sherlock over and lick the small of his back. Sherlock’s shirt is still open, hanging agape from his frame like a window to his body, just a tease of flesh that is nothing short of beautiful. It’s at this moment that both John, whom Lestrade is slightly embarrassed to admit he forgot about for a brief minute, and Lestrade move over to the mattress, leaning over Sherlock who is as content as a cat.

There are no words, no sounds save the soft rumble emitting from Sherlock’s chest like a purr. There doesn’t need to be. It’s almost magnificent listening to this creature, this- this thing of a man purr and rumble like that. It’s gorgeous, it’s beautiful, it’s perfect.

Sherlock’s eyes are on him, staring, boring deep into him and it makes his skin prickle pleasantly. He then switches them to John, something flashing briefly, a twitch of the eyebrow and it’s enough to tell Lestrade to look away before someone gets hurt.

Instead, he leans down and licks his way up Sherlock’s neck, mouthing just underneath his chin. Sherlock moans softly, his fingers curling against the shirt on Lestrade’s back.

“God...” he murmurs but Lestrade can still hear the grin in his voice.

“Not quite,” he replies, nuzzling Sherlock’s neck again. His skin is soft, tight and warm under his lips. He can feel his pulse, every rush of blood and beat of his heart and it’s intoxicating being this close to a man so unattainable.

 _God, you’re so fucking gorgeous_ , Sherlock, he wants to say. But the words never make it from his lips. They die softly against Sherlock’s skin, unheard but not forgotten and he belittles himself for being such a coward. It doesn’t matter though- Lestrade distracts himself by biting Sherlock’s neck hard, sucking on the spot and pulling forth such pretty moans from his lips.

“Fuck!” Sherlock cries, his fingers scrabbling against Lestrade’s back and he smiles against the spot. John leans down and inspects it, grinning slightly.

“Nice.”

“I know,” Lestrade replies, his eyes twinkling in delight. However the moment is short lived when Sherlock pulls a leg up and digs his heel into the small of the inspectors back. “Ow! Sherlock!”

The man’s pale eyes are glittering with arousal, his cheeks flushed heavily. “Enough talking- more fucking.”

John tuts and raises an eyebrow dubiously, slinking up Sherlock’s body to grab his chin and force the man’s gaze onto him. “That’s a bit debasing isn’t it? Even for you?” Lestrade snickers and moves to lick down Sherlock’s lean chest, nosing his shirt out of the way to latch onto a dusty pink nipple.

“Ohhhh . . .” Sherlock moans, arching up toward Lestrade’s mouth. He should have known the man was sensitive there. “Oh, should I apologise for my lack of propriety in bed?” he snaps. “Please, can we refrain from speaking when either one of you could be engaging in sexual intercourse with me. Better?”

“One of us?” John chuckles, leaning closer to the man’s face and ghosting the words against Sherlock’s lips. “Selfish.”

“Or both,” Sherlock grins. “I’m not picky.”

Lestrade’s breath hitches at this last statement and he groans low in his throat. The image of both John and Lestrade pushing desperately into a willing and moaning Sherlock is too much, his lean thighs quivering around Lestrade’s hips as John pushes into him from behind, further impaling him on Lestrade’s cock-

 _Fuck._

 _Fuck._

It was almost enough to make him come then and there.

“Greedy,” Lestrade mumbles, nuzzling Sherlock’s other nipple before latching on to it and sucking. Sherlock groans low in his throat and the noise shoots straight down to Lestrade’s cock, his arousal spiking tenfold. Fumbling fingers stumble as they pry Sherlock away from his shirt, casting it on the floor somewhere. Lestrade then moves to quickly unbutton Sherlock’s trousers, grinding the heel of his palm against his cock, just for good measure.

“Hurry up!” Sherlock whines, kicking Lestrade away to sit up and quickly tug his trousers down. He’s not wearing underwear, which is so typical, Lestrade almost wants to roll his eyes. But the sight of Sherlock’s pink cock springing up and slapping wetly against his abdomen, leaking pre-come and so, so hard was tantalising.

Both John and Lestrade lick their lips.

Sherlock grins and moves back, straightening his back against the headboard, pulling his knees up and spreading them wide, rewarding both Lestrade and John with the most delicious sight. He rolls his neck up, baring it, eyes half lidded with arousal.

“Well?”

“Well . . .” John breathes, chewing on his lip slightly. “This isn’t really for a case, is it?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Who knows?” He nods at them. “Strip now.”

Lestrade recoils. “Excuse me?”

“Take off your clothes,” Sherlock commands. “Now.”

Lestrade blinks, a beat passing as he tries to comprehend that he’s been ordered to take his clothes off. “You can’t bloody order us, Sherlock! It doesn’t work that way!”

“It does if you want to fuck me.”

Sherlock reaches over to the bedside table and plucks out a strip of condoms and a tube of lubricant. He tosses them to the bed and brings a hand to his cock, wrapping long fingers around it and thumbing the head. His lips part in a silent “oh” and it’s all the cue they need.

“Oh, bloody hell!” John mumbles, fighting against his jumper as he tries to tug it over his head whilst simultaneously unbuttoning his trousers. “Shit! A little help here, Greg?”

Lestrade grins. “And here I thought doctors could multi-task.” He tugs his shirt and trousers off quickly, ignoring the sudden stab of self consciousness he feels at baring himself and moves to pry John away from his jumper.

“Oh shut up,” John snipes, grinning. Matters don’t help when he leans forward and nips at Lestrade’s lip playfully, both men suddenly tangled in the monster that was the cream jumper. They stumble, roll and promptly fall off the bed in a tangled mess of elbows and knees.

Lestrade groans, rubbing his sore elbow. “Fucking hell John!”

“Sorry, blame the jumper.” He quickly tugs it off and tosses it away, removing his t-shirt and unbuttoning his trousers. Above them, the mattress springs squeak and a wave of black curls peeks over the edge. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, his cheeks flushed and nose dotted pink from the sudden gravity shift.

“Can’t you two do anything right?” He snaps irritably.

Lestrade scrubs a hand over his face in exasperation as John makes quick work of his trousers and boxer shorts, flinging them accidently in Lestrade’s direction and hitting him squarely in the face.

“Shit- sorry about that,” John fumbles, grinning sheepishly. He yelps, missing Lestrade’s poorly placed glare, as Sherlock reaches down with bony arms and grabs his biceps, yanking him upwards and onto the bed. He falls with an “oof!”, winded slightly by Sherlock’s sudden onslaught. Lestrade snickers softly behind him and John narrows his eyes, reaching up and promptly kicking the chuckling man squarely in the stomach, grinning at the colourful string of curses streaming from his lips.

Lestrade grumbles angrily, moving to kneel on the bed, behind Sherlock. The man is bent over John, his spine curved deliciously, glistening with a sheen of sweat that Lestrade wastes no time in licking away. He kisses the nape of Sherlock’s neck, nipping at his shoulders and mapping out the light dusting of freckles across them. He didn’t expect Sherlock to have freckles- freckles were so-

So-

So human? So ordinary? One of them. Sherlock is so beautiful, carved and formed from marble, from the purest of alabaster. Absolutely flawless, with pale, milky skin and dark, auburn hair. Enough to make any woman or man fawn at his feet-

Wrong. Sherlock is tall, gangly with his long limbs and sharp elbows. He is graceful and elegant, yes but still normal. He sweats and cries and ejaculates like every other man. He has freckles across his shoulders and a tiny beauty spot, as Lestrade’s sisters used to call them, on his neck. He has long, skinny feet and fine dusting of hair on his now clammy and pink skin. It’s beautiful seeing the man so debauched.

Sherlock is human.

Lestrade blinks in surprise, leaning forward ever so slightly to place the lightest of kisses on a stray freckle. He can even feel the blood flowing under his skin and the feeling is fucking amazing.

“Move, Lestrade,” Sherlock mutters softly and the tone surprises him. It’s almost gentle, as if Sherlock was aware of Lestrade’s unspoken worship of his flaws, of his assets. The inspector snaps out of his reverie.

“What?”

“Do you want an elbow in your face?” John snipes from beneath Sherlock, his neck glistening and sloppy from Sherlock’s kisses. Lestrade moves to the side, watching intently as Sherlock slides down John’s body, his pink tongue dragging across skin before Sherlock takes the head of his cock between his lips, sucking softly as if this feeling was the most rapturous in the world.

“Oh fuck!” John moans lowly, his hands twisting in the sheets, his eyes firmly screwed shut. “Bloody . . . Fucking hell, Sherlock!” It’s not an accusation, merely an exclamation of awe in Sherlock’s talents. That, and he’s having the best bloody blow job of his life.

Lestrade watches, enraptured by the sight of John writing on the bed, his cheeks flushed and panting heavily toward the ceiling. A hand fists itself in Sherlock’s hair, twisting when John groans lowly. It’s amazing watching this, watching both these two men, so stoic and strong in everyday matters, slowly come apart together. Lestrade almost feels a little unworthy watching such a sight, a third wheel.

But he doesn’t let it bother him yet- the thought can jog on for all he cares. It’s the moment he wants- this surreal, odd but fucking wonderful moment. And he’s not going to let it go for anything in the world. Morals and propriety can fuck the hell off.

Sherlock’s shoulder shifts as he leans down further, hooking an arm over John’s sweaty knee to push it back against his chest and give him more room to lavish attention on John's cock.

“Oh god... Sherlock,” John whimpers, a stray bead of sweat breaking out against his temple. Lestrade can feel his own erection throb as he watches, a painful stab of arousal coiling deep within the pit of his stomach. His eyes flit toward Sherlock’s back, drifting down his knobbly spine before landing on the swell of his arse.

And suddenly he has an idea.

He leans forward, kissing the nape of Sherlock’s neck, a lingering moment before drifting south, peppering light brushes of his lips against each prominent knob of his spine. He can feel Sherlock shuffling slightly, pausing briefly before continuing with his work of slowly undoing John piece by piece.

Lestrade finally bends down slightly, licking the small of Sherlock’s back before pushing his cheeks apart with his thumbs. He’s never done this before- not really. Not that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, there’s always plenty to learn through cheap porn.

In reality though, Lestrade’s just doing to Sherlock what he would have liked done to himself. It’s instinct, a deep, heady drive within Lestrade pushing him to his limits. He wants to do this.

And by the strangled, half moan spilling from Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth when Lestrade touches his tongue against the hot skin of Sherlock’s perineum, he knows he’s made the right choice.

“Shh,” he croons, licking his way toward Sherlock’s entrance and back down again. It’s a little strange, Lestrade finally determines, but nothing he wouldn’t do again. He swirls his tongue against Sherlock’s anus, prodding slightly at the soft puckered flesh and swiping firmly. Sherlock’s hips are twitching now, confused between pushing back against Lestrade’s tongue and grinding down into the sheets.

“Fuck,” Sherlock gasps and the obscenity of the word never ceases to arouse Lestrade when spilling from Sherlock’s lips. “What are you doing?!”

A pause. “I think it’s obvious.” Another long, pushing lick and John chuckles somewhere above him.

“I can’t bloody well do anything with you doing _that_ \- Ah!” Sherlock hisses sharply, Lestrade pushing his hands against the back of his knees and pushing them apart to wriggle his tongue around the sensitive skin he’s lavishing.

Sherlock moans loudly as Lestrade works his tongue into him. It’s an odd sensation, this, but nothing completely uncomfortable. Hot maybe, and a little wet but other than that, it seems fine. Lestrade’s having no sudden sexuality crisis over this, no inner turmoil worth throwing his weight around over. And besides, with Sherlock writhing around like that there’s hardly anything to complain about.

He pushes Sherlock’s knees higher, leaving Sherlock sprawled out almost like a frog. And the sight would have been comical if it hadn’t left his pink arsehole, wet and lavished, bared for him so openly. God, the sight.

He wishes he had a camera.

“Stopped, have we?” Sherlock grumbles, his hips twitching from arousal. Once again, he attempts to clamp his lips around John’s cock, who is smiling fondly and running his fingers through the mess of curls on the other’s head.

“You love it,” Lestrade grins, leaning down to bestow an opened mouth, wet kiss to his entrance, resuming his previous practise and leaving Sherlock to gasp for air.

“D-dammit,” he groans, grinding his hips back in Lestrade’s tongue. John laughs again, a barely stifled chuckle.

“Calm down, Sherlock,” he smiles. “As much as your fellatio skills amaze me, I think I’d prefer it if nothing vitally important was bitten off.”

Sherlock, unable to respond as promptly and efficiently with his usual sarcastic retort, settles for grumbling into John’s hip, his hips arching up toward Lestrade.

“And besides,” John murmurs, carding his fingers “You have no idea how hot it is watching you.”

Lestrade smirks slightly at this, his mind wondering briefly to how John would be watching this situation, Sherlock’s head in his lap, mewling softly as he’s undone right before his eyes.

And without a moment’s thought for reluctance, Lestrade agrees whole-heartedly with him.

Sherlock’s hips cant slightly, small jerking movement rocking against the sheets at Lestrade’s ministrations while John watches in rapt fascination, crooning softly to Sherlock.

“A-ah!” Sherlock gasps, his hands fisting the sheets. “Will you bloody do- oh . . . something already?” His exclamation breaks off with a stifled moan. John chuckles above him.

“He is, though.”

“I mean, do more!” Sherlock snaps, shooting a half hearted glare John’s way. Lestrade pulls away with a fleeting lick to his perineum, grinning at the throaty groan spilling from Sherlock’s lips.

“And eating your arse out is nothing, is it?” he remarks, biting lightly on one of Sherlock’s cheeks before pressing a kiss there.

Sherlock jerks upward, his body twisting to grimace down at Lestrade. “You make it sound so vulgar.”

John, busy running his hands over Sherlock’s torso, smirks and places a palm on the small of Sherlock’s back, pulling the man upward and practically into his lap. “That’s because it is vulgar.”

Lestrade nods, catching John’s impish smirk and matching it. “Debasing.”

“Naughty.” John is grinning wolfishly, his eyes twinkling. Sherlock ducks his head, nuzzling in the crook of John’s shoulder. Small trembles are wracking through his body, tiny murmurs that travel down his spine and Lestrade wonders if he puts his mouth to the base of it if he could catch the shivers in his mouth. Feel the vibrations against his lips.

This is obviously affecting Sherlock, his milky thighs spread and straining around John’s legs as he refrains from rutting against the man. Lestrade notices this quickly and sits up, pressing his face in the base of his neck and merely breathing.

He’s going for gold.

Licking his lips, he presses his tongue to the spot, feeling the soft coarseness of short hairs against his lips before murmuring. “Wet . . .”

That does it.

Sherlock’s shoulders slump as a low moan emits from his mouth, muffled by the cavern he has created between his face and John’s neck. Lestrade grins and nips playfully at his skin, twisting his hand around Sherlock’s abdomen to rub his chest, thumbing over his nipples as John shifts slightly, reaching an arm across the bed.

“But that’s sex for you,” John comments. “Filthy.”

Lestrade nods. “You asked for it. And I think that allows us unprecedented access to that gorgeous arse of yours.” John beams in agreement.

Sherlock huffs and glares over his shoulder at Lestrade. “Continue, please. I _dare_ you.”

But the wicked glint in his eyes tells otherwise and Lestrade immediately ducks his head, busying himself with pressing soft kisses to Sherlock’s shoulder. The other murmurs in appreciation, a small sigh escaping his pink lips. However the soft noise is stolen, interrupted with a hitched gasp. Lestrade flicks his gaze up, watching as John cups Sherlock’s face in one hand, a thumb tracing softly over full lips before dragging their faces together and kissing him soundly.

And all of a sudden, his heart thrums painfully in his throat.

They look so perfect together, so opposite- John gently kissing Sherlock, their lips in sync. It’s unnerving watching the pale pink blush bloom across Sherlock’s cheeks, spilling across his neck to the tips of his ears. It’s unnerving listening to the small murmurs of appreciation as John nips playfully at his swollen lips, peppering small kisses across his cheeks and neck.

Lestrade ducks his head to escape the view, his heart palpitating softly in his throat like a caged bird. It makes it hard to swallow, to think past the roaring flames of his arousal and adoration for the detective. He hopes John feels the same way, feels just as shitty when Sherlock’s attention is elsewhere.

It’s not jealousy. Well, no, perhaps it is on some level. But a reluctant resignation which washes over him as if someone had suddenly doused him with a bucket of icy water.

 _Fuck this,_ he thinks. _You’re here for a good time, not to play Mr. Self pity._

He ducks his head, tracing his tongue around the freckles on Sherlock’s skin, following the constellations with wet kisses until suddenly he feels deft fingers steal around his wrist, squeezing firmly.

Lestrade raises his eyes only to meet Sherlock’s, the man watching him from over his shoulder. John’s face is barred from view, buried within the crook of Sherlock’s neck, his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. They’re so close, all three of them, it’s almost too hot, too sticky and sweaty. But it’s perfect and breathtaking and glorious and Lestrade prays he never has to move from this spot.

Sherlock’s eyes blaze, dilated with the force of his arousal as he pushes something into Lestrade’s palm, a small plastic tube, and it takes a moment for Lestrade to belatedly remember what it is.

A frown mars his brow, creasing ever so slightly. “You want me to . . .” the sentence is never finished.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his voice a mere rumble that reverberates straight though Lestrade. He eyes John, toying with the bottle of lube in his palm, rolling it between his fingers before uncapping it with a swift pop.

“Are you sure?” Because he really does need to ask. The situation doesn’t change a thing and Lestrade is nothing if not courteous.

He is rewarded however with a contemptuous glare, probably with less bite than originally thought, and a soft smile from John, who has raised his head to rest idly on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Lestrade sucks in a breath. “Ok.” And immediately squirts enough lube onto his fingers, the cold, viscous liquid slimy and silky against his skin. He rubs it, warming it into the tips of his fingers so it’s less shocking to Sherlock’s skin and places a soft kiss on his shoulder once again. He can feel the tension in Sherlock’s body, the tightly coiled arousal in his back, muscles clenching and twitching in anticipation. John’s wide hands are spread against his skin, strong and rubbing soothing circles, easing some of the tension clinging there. Lestrade watches them for a moment, drawn to the beautiful contrast, the strength both men have beneath skin, wrapped around their muscles. It’s odd knowing that both Sherlock and John have the power to kill him right now if they wanted to.

Wow.

The thought really was odd.

What is even stranger is sudden rush of exhilaration thrumming in the base of his stomach, his cock twitching in delight.

He bends his wrist forward, reaching between Sherlock’s spread thighs, tracing a finger from the small of his back, down the cleft to his perineum, rubbing gently and drawing forth a shuddering gasp from him as Sherlock bumps his hips against John’s, grinding their throbbing erections together.

“Easy,” Lestrade murmurs comfortingly, or as comfortingly as he can possibly be at this time, tightly wound with anticipation and the coil of arousal. Sherlock’s hips rock backward, the muscles flexing and his fingers immediately seek the soft, tight skin of his entrance. He pushes, feeling the tip of his finger sink in, eased by his previous ministrations and the lube.

Sherlock grunts in reply, the soft swell of his buttocks dotted with a pink flush. Lestrade pushes his finger in deeper, to the second knuckle, twisting it slightly and thrusting lightly before deciding to add a second. By this time, he has two fingers thrusting carefully into Sherlock, the rest of his fingers curled into his palm, butting against Sherlock’s arse, who squirms slightly. Breathy grunts spill from Sherlock’s lips, wet and languid, but it’s not what Lestrade wants to hear. He wants to hear Sherlock moan, scream his name.

“Alright?” he asks, placing his free hand to Sherlock’s shoulder to balance himself as he pulls away enough to raise his arm. Sherlock shoots him a wide eyed glare, if it is possible and Lestrade grins in reply. John has his chin resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, lazily watching Lestrade work his fingers into him slowly.

“Just asking.” He gives himself enough leverage, pushing his fingers in quickly and crooking them to try and strike the spot within Sherlock that would make him see stars. And after a second, his fingers brush against a small bump, enough to make Sherlock’s hips flinch, a shudder dancing through his frame.

 _Got it._

Lestrade, unable to withhold the grin splitting his face, raises his eyes, rubbing the spot again for effect. John smirks at him, nuzzling Sherlock’s trembling neck, a red hue blooming on the pale skin.

John looks directly at Lestrade and whispers. “Again.”

And Lestrade can do nothing but comply, relishing the sudden jolt Sherlock gives, whining low in the back of his throat.

“A-ah!”

They continue for a moment, Lestrade adding a third finger and thrusting steadily before Sherlock reaches behind him and grabs his wrist, squeezing tightly.

“I’m ready,” he pants. “Now. Just do it now.”

“Demanding, aren’t we?” John smirks. “Little brat.”

Sherlock responds by grinding his erection into John’s stomach, moaning lowly and leaving streaks of pre-come against the darker skin. Lestrade reaches over, swiping a thumb against the white stripe on John’s skin and brings it to his mouth, sucking lightly. Sherlock’s eyes are wide on him, blown apart with emotion, with feeling and it’s without a doubt the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen; Sherlock so debauched, grinding forward against John’s skin and thrusting his hips back to impale himself on Lestrade’s fingers. The stimulation is everywhere, wrapping around him like a thick, electric cocoon and Lestrade almost feels sympathy for him, for his mind being so addled.

Pleasure like this could kill a man.

“And who’s doing what?” he asks, rubbing once more against Sherlock’s prostate, his stomach flipping at the low moan escaping his throat.

“Hmm?” It really is a feat worthy of congratulation that Sherlock is still able to remain a little coherent despite being caught between the two of them. John peppers kisses across his throat, working up behind Sherlock’s ear to nuzzle there for a second. Sherlock tilts his head to the side and sighs in pleasure, bringing a hand to curl in John’s hair, the sight beyond erotic to Lestrade.

“What do you want?” Lestrade whispers, leaning forward to breathe into the nape of Sherlock’s neck, inhaling the musky smell of sweat and hair and soap. He kisses the spot, wanting nothing more than to bury himself within those beautiful curls, to worship this man. He’s beautiful, so bloody gorgeous it almost hurts to look at him like this . . .

“Fuck me,” Sherlock finally breathes into John’s hair. “Someone fuck me now.”

 _Yes_ is the only thought able to run smoothly within Lestrade’s mind. _Yes, yes, god yes._ His hips jerk upwards at the thought of being buried so deeply within Sherlock. There’s a faint rustling sound and he opens his eyes, pulling away from Sherlock slightly to see John holding a condom packet between his fingers, tearing it carefully open with his teeth and handing it to Lestrade.

Lestrade’s mind suddenly double-takes. “You want me to-” Not that he’s complaining as such, just that it would be awfully impolite to just take (fuck really) without asking John first.

But wasn’t this supposed to be unmitigated, spontaneous, bloody fun? Unprompted, impulsive- throw each other on the bed and have hot, wild, breathless sex until they each pass out from exertion fun?

So why is Lestrade fussing like an overgrown hen?

John’s eyebrows quirk upward. “Oh. I mean I just thought-”

“Well yeah.” Lestrade blushes. “But wouldn’t you like to... you know?”

And after a moment of fumbled words and embarrassed blushes, they still haven’t been able to decide who was going to fuck Sherlock, who is, and rightly so by this time, more than exasperated.

“Oh for goodness sake!” he cries, throwing his hands up in irritation and almost but not quite poking John’s eye in the same movement. “I don’t bloody care who does it! One of you, both of you- it doesn’t fucking matter!”

There’s a moment of quiet, the air buzzing with the aftermath of Sherlock’s tantrum. John and Lestrade exchange glances, the awkwardness between them reaching a peak until Lestrade feels suffocated, unable to withstand this much longer.

He decides to break the silence.

“Alright sunshine,” he chides. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”

Although, he thinks, quite stupidly.

John, trying to keep a straight face, snorts suddenly before bursting out into laughter, falling back onto the sheets and rolling in mirth. Sherlock looks less than pleased.

“Ha ha yes very funny, Lestrade,” he snipes, the sarcasm rolling from the words in waves. “If I had known you were such a comic genius, I wouldn’t have mistaken you for an idiot.”

Lestrade, feeling that the appropriate action was to roll his eyes, did just so, grinning at the pink flush upon John’s cheeks as he finally calmed enough to breathe.

“I can’t believe were doing this,” John sighs, smiling contently at the others. Sherlock sniffs and looks away, huffing for dramatic effect which is lost upon both Lestrade and John, who snigger quietly like school boys.

“I don’t even know why I bothered to think this would’ve been a good idea,” Sherlock groans, rubbing his temples, his brows pulled taunt into a frown.

Lestrade chuckles, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. “Because,” he coos in an irritatingly high pitch. “You love us.”

Johns snorts again, biting back a giggle and reaches with his foot to kick Lestrade’s head. “Why’ve you gotta go and make him uncomfortable for?” he grins. “I doubt we’d get to the fucking now.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the ceiling. “We're hardly ever going to get to the fucking unless you both stop acting like bloody children!”

Sherlock groans at the noises of grimace both John and Lestrade make, their noses wrinkling in childish disdain. “You know what I mean! Stop that!” His cheeks stain high with a ruddy hue, a beautiful contrast against Sherlock’s so calm physique. Lestrade reaches around and plants a soft kiss to his cheek, feeling a sudden wave of tenderness wash over him for the man. Sherlock grumbles and ducks his head, his cheeks flaming against Lestrade’s lips and he can’t help but smile against them, their warmth uplifting.

“Sorry, sorry,” Lestrade sighs, but without bite. He’s still joking, amusement high in his body and mixing with his previous endorphins. Right now, Lestrade feels pretty good.

Even Sherlock is trying to hide a smile.

“We’re sorry, aren’t we, John?”

John grins and assents, nodding vigorously from his sprawled position on the bed. “Oh yeah. Very sorry.”

Sherlock is muttering something under his breath, most likely, if Lestrade knows the man as well as he thinks he does, about the idiocy of them both. John distracts him however by leaning upward, catching Sherlock’s mouth in a soft kiss before dragging him down, his body bent awkwardly over the doctor. Lestrade watches with a cocked head and a fond smile as John runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair, being surprisingly sneaky as he discreetly tosses another condom to Lestrade, the other probably long gone by now.

Lestrade stares at it, his gaze switching between the silver foil in his palm to the soft noises rolling from Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock’s lean back, beads of sweat forming beside the dainty freckles, his prominent spine, each knob both round and sharp. The soft swell of his buttocks, flushed pink and completely tantalising. The dark pink bud of flesh peeking at him whenever Sherlock flexes, gorgeous under Lestrade’s pliant tongue, stretching tightly around his aching cock.

 _God, he’s beautiful_ , Lestrade thinks, defeated, remembering all too suddenly that he was in love with this man.

He leans over, the condom still within his palm and rests his cheek upon the back of Sherlock’s neck in adoration, in complete love. He inhales deeply, feeling the soft moans drawn forth because of John. He can almost, if he tries, feel Sherlock’s heart beat against his and it’s disgustingly romantic.

But Lestrade’s always been a bit of a romanticist

He has to move up when Sherlock nudges his hand, a soft murmur from his mouth that Lestrade can’t quite catch. He leans away and scoots backwards, mindful of the edge as Sherlock works his way down John’s chest, who is flushed and panting gently. Lestrade never knew John could blush so prettily.

“Sherlock,” John rumbles throatily as said man nuzzles a nipple, licking and sucking on it gently. John writhes under his touch, a hand steeling to his curly locks to grip, clutching desperately. Lestrade watches for a moment, already anticipating Sherlock’s next move and gives ample room between himself and for Sherlock to wriggle further down. It’s the only problem about this, Lestrade sighs. The bed isn’t big enough. Sherlock is all long limbs and angles and Lestrade really can’t see them having sex in the future without bumping elbows unless in a spacious, padded room.

The condom packet crinkles slightly in his palm and although he’s more than content to simply watch Sherlock and John at it, he knows there are things to be done. He sits up on his knees, reaching for the tube of lube cast haphazardly on the floor and tears open the condom packet. He rolls it on slowly, eyes conflicted on whether to watch John gasp and moan as Sherlock swirls his tongue against his hips, or concentrate on his own task.

He applies lube, hissing at the cool sensation before giving his erection a few strokes. He’s still hard and aching and his teeth grit at the sharp, tugging pleasure stabbing his stomach, making pulling his hand away a strenuous task.

His attention is suddenly caught by a sharp intake of breath, John’s back arching ever so slightly and his eyes firmly screwed shut. Sherlock’s head is bobbing between his legs, his tongue swirling around the head of his cock.

“Shouldn’t . . .” John gasps. “Shouldn’t we use . . . something?” The question is ripped out with a fleeting moan that crawls up Lestrade’s spine.

Sherlock leans up with a wet pop. “Doesn’t matter. You’re a doctor- I know you’re clean.”

“Yeah, but-”

He is cut off as Sherlock leans back down and works his tongue underneath the taunt foreskin, teasing the ridge of the head slightly. John whines between gritted teeth and Lestrade believes that the argument is over. Which is good because it’s the last thing he wants to hear in bed- STDs.

God, why does he feel like he’s fifteen again?

He shakes his head and looks on- Sherlock seems perfectly unaware, blissful to his task of blowing John and Lestrade takes this opportunity to concoct a little surprise of his own. He squirts some lube onto his fingers, rubbing it between them before coating Sherlock’s entrance, hooking a finger inside to make sure the man is well prepared.

And judging by the startled, but not entirely protesting, little noise from the back of Sherlock’s throat, consequently pulling forth a loud groan from John, Lestrade knows that he’s fine.

 _You’re going to do it._

 _Shit. You’re going to do it!_

 _You’re going to fuck Sherlock Holmes._

 _Shut up._

Lestrade can feel the back of his neck itching; one third from anticipation, the second third from nervousness (although arguably, they’re the same thing) and the third third ( _there’s a reason you failed maths_ ) possibly from an itch, which thankfully fades in a second.

“God Sherlock . . . yes, _yes_ \- right there!”John gasps, the sound reverberating though Lestrade’s skin. “F-fuck yes! Fuck, Sherlock- like that, _yes_!”

Lestrade bits his lip and lines himself behind Sherlock, his hands moving to grip the man’s sinewy hips, thumbs pressing firmly into his gorgeous pink blushed arse. He rubs his cock between his cheeks, up and down and Sherlock whines low, breaking away from John’s cock to twist his head and gaze at Lestrade, who’s watching him with no little amount of trepidation.

“Do it,” Sherlock gasps, the words raspy and worn, his lips swollen and wet- so succulent and red. John grabs Sherlock’s head and manoeuvres it back, nudging his cock against his cheeks, his neck, his lips.

Lestrade, unable to wait any longer, lines his cock up against Sherlock’s entrance, the head nudging against his anus as Lestrade finally pushes, seeking entrance. He pushes slowly, Sherlock breathing heavily, his shoulders trembling and hips flexing, the tight, tight flesh around him enough to make Lestrade mad with want.

“God, Sherlock,” he whispers, grunting as he is finally buried within Sherlock. His cheeks are hot, flushed with arousal and a bead of sweat rolls down Sherlock’s spine. He reaches forward and licks it away, listening to the breathy pants of both Sherlock and John before pulling out and thrusting back in. It’s been a while but he hasn’t completely lost all knowledge. You can’t really with this sort of thing- it merely imprints itself into your skin.

Soon, Lestrade is gripping Sherlock’s hips tightly, pistoning his hips back and forth as he thrusts deeper and deeper into Sherlock.

“Greg,” Sherlock pants. “Greg . . .” He must have pulled away from John, his head nestling against John’s inner thigh, his fist clamped around John’s cock and he fervently jerks him. “Oh, oh God . . . Harder, harder!”

 _Harder_. Lestrade pauses for a moment, pulling out before thrusting sharply back in, trying to angle himself to hit-

“Fuck!”

- _that_ spot.

“Fuck, fuck! Yes, yes, yes, there, Greg. There, please!” Sherlock is practically sobbing with need, pushing his hips back in time with Lestrade’s heavy thrusts. John is grinding himself against Sherlock’s cheek, his neck, his head tossing side to side on the pillow. He finally moves to push himself up, resting on his elbows to glimpse Lestrade better, to see him fuck Sherlock. Sherlock is a sight, his head in John’s lap, his blushing arse raised, jerking every time Lestrade thrusts in sharply.

“Please,” he cries. “Yes, uh _god, Greg_ , harder! More!”

Lestrade complies, feeling his balls tighten, the pressure in his lower abdomen and the small of his back unfurling, throbbing insistently as he starts to feel close. He knows he isn’t going to last long, not with Sherlock moaning and writhing so fucking wantonly, begging for more- _harder, deeper, faster, come on, Greg, please! Fuck me harder, fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme!_

John wraps his hand around his own cock when Sherlock can do nothing more but moan and places his other hand beneath Sherlock’s chin, raising his head to meet his eyes. He furiously strokes his cock, the purple head, dripping with pre-come.

“Greg-” John gasps, his eyes stealing towards Lestrade for a brief moment. Electricity passes between them as Lestrade pants for air, his cheeks stained red with heat. They can both feel it, this new-found connection between them because of Sherlock. They know that tomorrow, the day after, next week, they’ll never be able to look at each other without thinking of this very moment.

Lestrade finds, staring into John’s blown pupils, wide and dilated with arousal, that he couldn’t care less. And judging by the heady look John passes him, he suspects the doctor cares even less than Lestrade himself.

“Touch him,” John finally whispers. “Now.”

 _Yes._

Lestrade reaches down and takes hold of Sherlock’s cock, hot and wet with pre-come, dripping messily onto the sheets. Sherlock groans and cries distorted words of garbled moans and whimpers. He strokes lightly, thrusting harder and harder until he can feel his peak coming along.

John is gasping into the air, his thighs quivering and Sherlock bends his head, tongue sliding across from base to the head before John comes with a strangled cry, spurting across Sherlock’s cheeks and lips.

“Fuck,” he cries, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, fuck!”

It’s like dominos from there. Sherlock comes with a particular hard thrust against his prostate and a tight squeeze on his cock, screaming into John’s thigh as he bucks wildly and spills across the sheets. And, feeling the sudden clamping of Sherlock's entrance against his cock, Lestrade comes with a few more thrusts, crying aloud.

“G-god- fuck!”

It’s glorious- bright lights exploding behind his lids, his throat choking with both the need to breathe and to scream, his lungs burning from exertion. His genitals are sensitive and sore, his thighs quivering and the sweat cooling on his body- this was pleasure. This was pure, fucking happiness.

Lestrade, managing to summon a hidden stash of energy somewhere from within him, pulls out, receiving a small wince from Sherlock, and pulls the condom off, moving from the bed on wobbly legs, to discard it in the bathroom bin. He flicks the light on, the fluorescents in the white room stinging his eyes, making them water slightly from the brightness of it.

He squints, blinking a few times before discarding the condom and turning away, before accidently, and if not a little clichéd for the moment, catches his gaze in the bathroom mirror.

He is blotchy- spots of red upon his neck and cheeks, his lips ever so puffy. His greying hair is a mess, unkempt, and sticking up in odd tufts and he doesn’t even bother to smooth it down, knowing full well it won’t comply.

“Fucking hell . . .” he murmurs, puffing out his cheeks and sticking out his tongue at his reflection, feeling slightly childish despite still basking in some sort of post-coital haze. He pokes his stomach, the slight paunch a little off putting. He sucks it in, standing straight and tall.

“Hello,” he murmurs, his voice low and, in his eyes, the best attempt at a sexy voice he can do. He cocks an eyebrow and smirks invitingly. “Detective-Inspector Gregory Lestrade. And you are?”

 _An idiot._

He sighs heavily and moves to splash some water on his face, hoping to god to shake the sudden butterflies building in his stomach away. He is not a bloody teenage girl. He’s had sex before- no- He’s fucked someone before. Fucked and sucked and banged and done all sorts of filthy thing to reciprocating people.

So why he’s feeling so bloody nervous, he will never know.

“Greg!” It’s Sherlock.

The sound snaps him out of his thoughts quickly, quick enough to make him almost jump in shock. He quickly wipes his face on one of the towel hanging there and switches the bathroom light off.

“What?” he calls back, mindful of the darkness as he attempts to manoeuvre himself back into the bedroom.

“Come here!”

“I’m coming,” he huffs in irritation. “Give me a bloody- Ow!”

Lestrade stumbles into the bedroom, hobbling on one foot and trying to grab the other after stubbing his toe unceremoniously against the skirting board.

“Fuck it,” he hisses in pain, glaring at Sherlock who is lying on his front, naked to the world and head buried in one of the pillows. John is beside him, resting on his side and smiling contently. “What, Sherlock?”

By god, this man better have a fucking good reason, Lestrade’s toe screams.

“I’m cold.”

 _Guess not._

 _Let’s kill him!_

 _No!_

Lestrade is surprised his hurt foot can even voice thoughts, let alone cast death threats toward the world’s only consulting detective.

The same world’s only consulting detective, who can’t be bothered to even cover himself with the quilt, which is bunched up and disregarded at the foot of the bed. Lestrade sighs and grabs it, hauling it over Sherlock, John and himself as he climbs in, wriggling under it and staring up at the ceiling. The room is cool, not quite chilly but nor stifling warm, and it’s nice really, to be in someone’s company instead of on his own. He twists his head to the left, gazing at the tops of John and Sherlock’s heads.

Scrap someone- he really means a not quite sociopathic, high maintenance man and his friend, a crippled ex-soldier doctor, who, most likely, knows more about the shooting of the serial suicide killer than Lestrade would like to think.

He finds however, that he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

It’s at that point, the tender, post-coital moment between all three of them, Sherlock peaceful for once, that Lestrade’s stomach decides to rebel, feeling peace inadequate.

The rumble is embarrassingly loud and John turns around to grin at him.

Lestrade blushes. "I'm a bit hungry," he says.

“Really?” John murmurs, poking the stomach in question. “I would never have guessed.”

He snorts, nudging John’s shoulder with a lazy fist. The doctor grins and flips onto his back, rubbing his own stomach slightly.

“Food does sound good right now.” Lestrade nods in acquiescence, his eyes shutting, merely finding peace in the darkness. However, by the sound of it, John is poking Sherlock awake.

“Wha’?” the man grumbles, groggy.

“Get us some food,” Lestrade says, cracking an eye open to see Sherlock’s neck arch up in a languid stretch before he flops back down against the mattress with a soft thud.

“Get it yourself. Sleeping.”

“Lazy sod,” John chides. “This was your idea so the least you can do is feed us.”

But Sherlock responds with a sleepy grunt.

“You’ve got to come ‘round more often,” John murmurs, turning to gaze at Lestrade, the faint light from a streetlamp washing through the room and highlighting the planes of his face. “You can fuck Sherlock to sleep. Maybe we can get a bit of rest then.”

Lestrade can barely see him in the dark, just the shadows of his forehead, his eyes, nose and chin. Mere lines in the darkness that he finds he wants to reach out and trace.

John is scooting closer, his breath light on Lestrade’s shoulder.

He grins. “Didn’t peg you down as a cuddler.”

John smiles, Lestrade can feel it against his skin. “I’m old fashioned like that.”

But neither of them move, John’s warm head resting against his shoulder and Lestrade’s prone on his back, his arm almost, but not quite, touching John’s. Lestrade is thankful there isn’t any residing awkwardness between them, considering they just had sex with the man they’re both strangely enamoured of, whom is snoring like sleeping beauty beside them. He doesn’t get many moments like these, and although it’s strange and slightly surreal, it doesn’t make it any less comforting.

His stomach rumbles again and John laughs.

“I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.” He stifles a yawn. “ . . . Bought bacon today.”

“Bacon sarnie?” Lestrade whispers against his hair, frightened of ruining the moment. “You really are old fashioned.” He hopes John can feel his smile.

John merely pats his stomach and pulls the quilt further up over the both of them. “Go to sleep.”

Lestrade does, the promise of breakfast and John’s warm hand against his stomach lulling him into a dreamless, peaceful slumber.

And if he wakes at an ungodly hour in the morning, John’s head pillowed on his chest, arms wrapped tightly around him and Sherlock plastered to his side, he’ll do nothing but go back to sleep, feeling for once, that everything is just fine.

The end.

A/N- Well.....After near enough five months slaving over this, I think it's safe to say that I am a little proud of it. Still a pain in the arse but there you go. Anyways- thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! <3 


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